Rating: This part rated PG-13, the whole thing rated NC-17 (but that part will be detached, and is also the part containing the eventual slash element)
Disclaimer: Just about everything belongs to Tolkien except for the order I put the words in.
Author's Notes: This will try to remain faithful to the books and assorted appendixes up until the beginning of the story, but after that, it more or less becomes an AU and ignores everything the appendixes say happened after 4044 in the Shire Reckoning.
***
Once, they had been many. Spawned in light, but forged in darkness, they had swarmed like black locusts over the earth, rending forest and hill with strong and hateful arms to cut their paths. They had come in their thousands, in their thousands upon thousands, and they had burnt the tall cities of Men and slaughtered the Dwarves in their deepest mines. Even Elves, blessed and gilded, had fallen to their twisted black blades. All creatures knew and feared their name, and great armies threw down their arms to their battle-cry alone. They were the servants of Sauron, the thronging nightmare of Middle Earth, and the screaming death of the Free Peoples.
They were the Orcs.
Once, they had been many, but now the Third Age was gone. The One Ring had been destroyed, and with it, the master of their making, and they had been left, leaderless and frightened before the armies of the Heir of Isildur. Uncountable numbers died that day on the doorstep of Mordor, but uncountable more were still to die. For the King soon claimed his throne, and out of the land of Gondor came riders and foot soldiers, hunting the scattered bands of Orcs with a vengeful fury. The sons of Dwarves reclaimed their secret mountain places, and the very trees and beasts of the wood struck out against them. Shattered, they fell upon each other in a maelstrom of blame, and many those who were not destroyed by Man or Dwarf or beast fell at the claws and blades of their kinsmen.
Once, they had been many. Now, they were few.
Few, but not gone, not yet. For once, long ago in a time before memory, they had been Elves, and their immortality remained as a lingering curse against their malformed flesh. Twenty-five years had passed since the destruction of the Ring, but the handful of Orcs who had not yet been cut down still slithered in the shadows and dark places. There they would live, terribly weakened, feeding off of carrion and soft, helpless prey, until something had mercy to kill them, for Sauron, in his wisdom of orchestrating their misery, had stayed their mutilated hands from the ability to take their own lives. Once many and terrible, they would eventually become nothing more than the basis for a hundred peasant rumours, for now and again a newborn lamb gone missing, or a child frightened by a hideous face scuttling in the shadows outside their window at night.
Such was the fate of their race, but such was not the fate accepted by all their kind. Four survived the carnage of the Black Gate and clung together, crawling and keening in search of the force that had stripped away their glory. For twenty-five years, they slunk through the land of Gondor, traveling weak and furtive fathoms with each night rather than once-striding miles. Every so often, they dared to creep into the towns of Men, and there they listened at the windows at homes and taverns, wherever songs of glory were sung. And they heard the song of Frodo of the Nine Fingers and the Ring of Doom. They heard of Samwise the True, and of the Shire, far distant home of the Halflings. They heard, and thus, twenty years after the destruction of the Ring, dark minds resolved to turn their aimless wanderings towards the north and west, towards Eriadod and the place where the Halflings lived.
One of their number fell to wolves in the Misty Mountains, but the three remained, and now their hearts were bent on the Halflings who had born the Ring. Winter after winter, they crawled their black way north, their broken minds never resting, until they reached the forests of Chetwood outside the town of Bree. There they found an old Man living wretched in the woods, blind and bent-backed, and he named himself to be Bill Ferny, and told them eagerly of how Frodo of the Nine Fingers had vanished some many years ago, but how Samwise the True still lived in the old hobbit-hole they called Bag End. The three rejoiced over this news and for the first time in twenty-five years, they filled their bellies with Man-flesh.
Now they had come at last to the Shire, scampering in the shadows of gardens and walls. The strongest among them carried a thin, sharp blade, taken those many years ago at the battle of Helm's Deep, but dipped now in a toxin purchased at dear cost from a brigand from the South. They would strike the flesh of the Hated One, and he would die slowly, burning from within with a terrible cold fire that would stretch his agony over the many months as purchase for the withering death of their race.
Three shadows crawled through the garden gate of Bag End, and thin, crooked fingers pushed open one round window. Two of the Orcs hid themselves in the lush cover of the well-planted gardens, busy hands tearing at the roots of the plants, but one slipped through into the darkened room, the blade shining bright in his grasp.
Looking about, he saw within that room a row of small beds with forms curled oblivious beneath the comforters, and in the nearest one, a tiny Halfling child, curled tight in sleep with one small thumb tucked in its mouth. A cracked smile broke over the face of the Orc. A child of the Hated One, the companion to the Ring-Bearer. The blade was placed lightly between his teeth. He would tear the flesh of this infant with his claws, and the screams would bring the Hated One, and he would have his prey. And perhaps, should he be truly fortunate, at last he might even have his death.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Disclaimer: Just about everything belongs to Tolkien except for the order I put the words in.
Author's Notes: This will try to remain faithful to the books and assorted appendixes up until the beginning of the story, but after that, it more or less becomes an AU and ignores everything the appendixes say happened after 4044 in the Shire Reckoning.
***
Once, they had been many. Spawned in light, but forged in darkness, they had swarmed like black locusts over the earth, rending forest and hill with strong and hateful arms to cut their paths. They had come in their thousands, in their thousands upon thousands, and they had burnt the tall cities of Men and slaughtered the Dwarves in their deepest mines. Even Elves, blessed and gilded, had fallen to their twisted black blades. All creatures knew and feared their name, and great armies threw down their arms to their battle-cry alone. They were the servants of Sauron, the thronging nightmare of Middle Earth, and the screaming death of the Free Peoples.
They were the Orcs.
Once, they had been many, but now the Third Age was gone. The One Ring had been destroyed, and with it, the master of their making, and they had been left, leaderless and frightened before the armies of the Heir of Isildur. Uncountable numbers died that day on the doorstep of Mordor, but uncountable more were still to die. For the King soon claimed his throne, and out of the land of Gondor came riders and foot soldiers, hunting the scattered bands of Orcs with a vengeful fury. The sons of Dwarves reclaimed their secret mountain places, and the very trees and beasts of the wood struck out against them. Shattered, they fell upon each other in a maelstrom of blame, and many those who were not destroyed by Man or Dwarf or beast fell at the claws and blades of their kinsmen.
Once, they had been many. Now, they were few.
Few, but not gone, not yet. For once, long ago in a time before memory, they had been Elves, and their immortality remained as a lingering curse against their malformed flesh. Twenty-five years had passed since the destruction of the Ring, but the handful of Orcs who had not yet been cut down still slithered in the shadows and dark places. There they would live, terribly weakened, feeding off of carrion and soft, helpless prey, until something had mercy to kill them, for Sauron, in his wisdom of orchestrating their misery, had stayed their mutilated hands from the ability to take their own lives. Once many and terrible, they would eventually become nothing more than the basis for a hundred peasant rumours, for now and again a newborn lamb gone missing, or a child frightened by a hideous face scuttling in the shadows outside their window at night.
Such was the fate of their race, but such was not the fate accepted by all their kind. Four survived the carnage of the Black Gate and clung together, crawling and keening in search of the force that had stripped away their glory. For twenty-five years, they slunk through the land of Gondor, traveling weak and furtive fathoms with each night rather than once-striding miles. Every so often, they dared to creep into the towns of Men, and there they listened at the windows at homes and taverns, wherever songs of glory were sung. And they heard the song of Frodo of the Nine Fingers and the Ring of Doom. They heard of Samwise the True, and of the Shire, far distant home of the Halflings. They heard, and thus, twenty years after the destruction of the Ring, dark minds resolved to turn their aimless wanderings towards the north and west, towards Eriadod and the place where the Halflings lived.
One of their number fell to wolves in the Misty Mountains, but the three remained, and now their hearts were bent on the Halflings who had born the Ring. Winter after winter, they crawled their black way north, their broken minds never resting, until they reached the forests of Chetwood outside the town of Bree. There they found an old Man living wretched in the woods, blind and bent-backed, and he named himself to be Bill Ferny, and told them eagerly of how Frodo of the Nine Fingers had vanished some many years ago, but how Samwise the True still lived in the old hobbit-hole they called Bag End. The three rejoiced over this news and for the first time in twenty-five years, they filled their bellies with Man-flesh.
Now they had come at last to the Shire, scampering in the shadows of gardens and walls. The strongest among them carried a thin, sharp blade, taken those many years ago at the battle of Helm's Deep, but dipped now in a toxin purchased at dear cost from a brigand from the South. They would strike the flesh of the Hated One, and he would die slowly, burning from within with a terrible cold fire that would stretch his agony over the many months as purchase for the withering death of their race.
Three shadows crawled through the garden gate of Bag End, and thin, crooked fingers pushed open one round window. Two of the Orcs hid themselves in the lush cover of the well-planted gardens, busy hands tearing at the roots of the plants, but one slipped through into the darkened room, the blade shining bright in his grasp.
Looking about, he saw within that room a row of small beds with forms curled oblivious beneath the comforters, and in the nearest one, a tiny Halfling child, curled tight in sleep with one small thumb tucked in its mouth. A cracked smile broke over the face of the Orc. A child of the Hated One, the companion to the Ring-Bearer. The blade was placed lightly between his teeth. He would tear the flesh of this infant with his claws, and the screams would bring the Hated One, and he would have his prey. And perhaps, should he be truly fortunate, at last he might even have his death.
TO BE CONTINUED...
